


Take Me Home

by scootsaboot



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alpha Jack, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Barebacking, Fluff, Impossible refractory periods, Kinda?, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Rhys, Pining, Porn With Plot, Rimming, brief allusions to mpreg, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot/pseuds/scootsaboot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe he was getting tired of spending his heats alone, jerking off for five days and watching bad porn—who could blame him? The suppressors usually do a good job of keeping him level-headed, forcing the heat down into something more manageable. But he still feels the need, pulling at him, making his skin tingle. It’s just so unsatisfying, taking care of himself during heat, not having an Alpha there to fuck him the way he needs to be fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renqa (oldmanrenkas)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmanrenkas/gifts).



> This fic is based off of Lelelego and Renqa's A/B/O AU and was written for Renqa's birthday. It's a little late, but happy birthday!!

Rhys anxiously taps his foot against the carpet, the ticking wall clock doing nothing to ease his tense shoulders. He flicks his eyes to it for what seems like the hundredth time, and he swears the minute hand is going _backwards_. His apartment feels absolutely sweltering, and he tugs at the collar of his tank top—grumbles, when it doesn’t help _at all_.

It wasn’t like—he wasn’t _nervous_ , really. This was hardly the first time he’d be spending his heat with an Alpha. Sure, maybe the last three or four years had mostly consisted of him doped up on suppressors, cold showers, and binge eating ice cream, but he _has_ been helped through it before and he knows what to expect. Of course, that had been with his then-boyfriend, and this— _this_ was completely unfamiliar to him.

So maybe he was getting tired of spending his heats alone, jerking off for five days and watching bad porn—who could blame him? The suppressors usually do a good job of keeping him level-headed, forcing the heat down into something more manageable. But he still feels the _need,_ pulling at him, making his skin tingle. It’s just so _unsatisfying_ , taking care of himself during heat, not having an Alpha there to fuck him the way he _needs_ to be fucked.

His constant complaints must’ve been getting annoying, because Yvette gives him a business card for one of those “Alpha for hire” services. Rhys’ blush covers his entire face but he shoves it in his pocket nonetheless, and calls the number on it not even a week later.

Honestly, it’s probably the most uncomfortable conversation he’s ever had over the phone. The woman on the line—Betty—is nonchalant as she asks him all sorts of invasive questions about how long his heat usually lasts, how intense it is, what brand of birth control he’s on, etc., etc. It’s awkward, but it ends with her scheduling an “appointment” and that word probably weirds him out the most.

 _Now,_ with less than twenty minutes before whoever she sent is supposed to show up, Rhys is maybe a little unsure about the whole thing. She told him on the phone that they send an Alpha a day before heat is supposed to start, just so everyone has a clear head when setting boundaries. It’s a great idea, really, and he’s glad they prepare ahead for things like that.

The problem, he thinks, rubbing his temple with his flesh hand, is that his heat is already _starting._

Maybe it’s the anxiety, or maybe his body can just _sense_ that an Alpha is on his way to fuck him stupid. Either way, he’s starting to think he should call and cancel—settle into bed and deal with it like he usually does.

The sudden knock at the door stops him, hand outstretched toward his phone. There’s a moment where he doesn’t move, but a second knock that’s louder than the first has him hurrying to his feet. He wipes his sweaty palm on his shorts and takes a calming breath.

Rhys opens the door—and stares, eyes widening just a fraction at the man standing on the other side of the doorway. He’s roughly the same height as Rhys, but so much _broader_. His arms are thick and his hands look like they could snap Rhys in _half_.

Arousal coils tight in his gut when their eyes (heterochromatic, just like Rhys’) meet; the guy smirks, muscles tugging at the faint scar that runs across his face like an upside-down V.

 

“Rhys, right?” he asks, and Rhys nods and tries not to think about just how damn _attractive_ the guy is. The agency had asked if he had any preferences, but this was ridiculous. It’s like he walked straight out of every wet dream Rhys has ever had.

“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” Rhys says, wracking his brain for the name of the man in front of him—knows the woman had given it to him. “You must be…er…” 

“Jack,” the man offers easily, taking in Rhys’ flushed face. “Already started, huh kiddo?” Jack asks and Rhys nods, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” Jack honest to God _winks_ at him, “I’m gonna take care of you.” Rhys looks away and bites his lip before stepping aside to let the man in. He shuts the door with a soft click and tilts his head to watch Jack, who seems to be taking the place in.

Jack’s back is to him and he can’t help but follow the lines of Jack’s jacket with his eyes, wishing the man was wearing less so he could see _more_. Rhys inhales sharply, the Alpha’s scent overwhelming and heavy in his nose; it makes his skin prickle and he shifts uncomfortably when he feels wetness between his legs.

“You need a drink or somethin’, pumpkin?” Jack glances back, eyebrow raised, “I know you’re all hot and bothered over there, but we have to set some rules before we can get to the fun stuff.”

Rhys swallows and nods shakily, “Yeah, just—yeah, sorry,” he says, padding softly to the kitchen. He gets himself a glass of ice water, and presses it to his warm forehead before taking a long drink.

When he walks back into the living room, Jack is seated on the couch, splayed out and arms resting along the back like he belongs there. Rhys sits down in the nearby armchair, balancing the glass on his thigh, sighing as the condensation drips lazily down his skin.

“First things first,” Jack says, “any no-no’s? Shit I should avoid?”

Rhys has to think for a moment, “oh, ah, if you could just not touch,” he turns his head slightly, tapping at the skin right beneath his echo port. “It’s kind of sensitive.”

“Gotcha. Anything else? Positions you don’t like?”

“ _Uh_ —not…not really,” Rhys replies, frowning when his brain shoves images of Jack bending him over the coffee table to the forefront of his mind.

“Fair enough. Anything you _don’t_ like, makes you uncomfortable, unsure, whatever, you say stop, and I’ll stop, alright?” Rhys nods. “I know it’s gonna get a little…ehhh,” Jack wiggles his fingers, “difficult to be coherent, so we’ll take pretty frequent breaks.”  

“Sounds good,” Rhys says, his voice a little tight. He’s starting to sweat again, and thinking about all the dirty things he wants Jack to do to him isn’t helping.

Jack watches him for a moment before he asks, “you eat already?”

“Yeah,” Rhys breathes, squirming in his seat.

“You wanna leave that on?” Jack motions to Rhys’ cybernetic arm. Rhys glances down at it, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jack says, “robot arm is friggin’ sexy, but—“

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” Rhys says, already trading his glass of water for the unlock tool on the coffee table. He knows that once they get into the swing of things, he won’t want to deal with putting it on its charger when it dies. Plus, he doesn’t want it to get…broken, or dented, or y’know, knock someone out with it.

The gears in the shoulder click against each other before the arm comes loose against his palm. When he stands, his head feels lighter and heavier all at once and he has to close his eyes until the feeling passes. When he opens them again, Jack is watching him intently and if Rhys’ face could _get_ any redder, it would.

He shuffles to the bedroom and hooks his arm up to the unorganized pile of cords attached to the charger, grimacing when he feels slick rub between his thighs. Rhys puffs out a breath of air, and sets his arm down in its cradle.

“Y’know, there’s no extra fee if we start early.”

Rhys jumps in surprise and turns his head to glance at Jack, who’s suddenly _there_ in his bedroom, something like a smile tugging at his mouth.

The other man jerks his head toward the bed, eyebrows raised, and really, that’s all the encouragement Rhys needs before he’s tugging his shirt off and tossing it carelessly to the floor. Jack crowds him against the desk, tugs at the belt loops on Rhys’ shorts and pulls him forward. He leads Rhys to the bed and slides a large hand against his chest, presses until he sits down on the edge of the mattress.

Jack makes quick work of Rhys’ shorts, tugging them down his long legs until he kicks them away. He slides his hand along the smooth skin of Rhys’ thigh, thumb pressing the jut of his hip, tells him to lie back and relax. Rhys goes willingly, watching as Jack pulls off his boots and socks before he moves to sit between Rhys’ legs. Jack presses his palm against Rhys’ half-hard dick, cupping him between the thin material of his boxers.

Rhys makes a noise he’s not proud of—Jack takes it as an invitation, tugs the last layer of clothing off in one fell swoop. Once it’s gone, Rhys’ cock curves heavy against his stomach, pre-cum already leaking from the tip.

Jack hums, low and gravelly and it makes Rhys’ toes curl.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Jack asks and Rhys nods, gripping the sheets beneath him. And then Jack’s rough fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him to full hardness. Rhys jerks his hips against the other man’s hand, moaning quietly. It’s good, it’s _so_ good and Rhys decides right then and there that he’s never going another heat on suppressors.

He whines when Jack pulls away, but then blunt fingers are pressing against his entrance and his mouth forms an ‘o’. Jack easily slips two fingers inside the omega, wet and hot with slick.

Jack teases him slowly, wringing quiet gasps and whimpers out of Rhys, who can only tighten his fingers in the sheets. His presses against the bundle of nerves that has Rhys moaning, pushing his hips down on Jack’s fingers.

“Ahh, _ah_ —“Rhys’ breath stutters as he comes, spilling onto his stomach, Jack milking him until he’s done. Rhys wants to be embarrassed by how quickly he’d finished, but the afterglow leaves him content and with a clearer head. It’s not worth the effort.

When Jack picks himself up off the bed, Rhys closes his eyes and catches his breath, relaxing into the pillow. He hums when he feels the mattress dip under Jack’s weight and a damp washcloth is pressed against his skin, cleaning up the mess on his stomach.

“Thanks,” Rhys mumbles.

“For the orgasm, or the cleanup?” Jack asks with a snort.

“Mmm, both.”

Jack laughs distantly; Rhys only knows he nods off because he’s pulled awake again by Jack’s hand patting his cheek. He sluggishly moves to sit up against the headboard, his glass from earlier refilled and pushed into his hand. He downs half of it before passing it back and curling up again.

Rhys watches Jack set the glass on the bedside table, before he runs his fingers through his disheveled hair—Rhys groans when he feels his heat flaring up again, smothering him with want. He turns, pressing his face into the pillow, _knows_ it’s only going to get worse from here on out.

He sighs when he feels the other man’s fingers press into his lower back, massaging the knots in his muscles.

“You need another one?” Jack asks after a few minutes, his hand stilling.

“Mn—no, not…not yet,” Rhys mumbles into his pillow, just wanting to enjoy having the Alpha’s hands on him despite the warmth in his stomach and the fresh slick he can feel between his legs. He doesn’t remember his heat being this intense on the first day before, but it _has_ been awhile since his last proper one.

Jack moves his fingers again, pressing against the knobs of Rhys’ spine, rubbing the tension from his shoulders. It’s nice and Rhys isn’t entirely sure it’s included in the ‘basic care package’ he’d paid for but he’s not about to complain.

He’s not sure when he finally drifts off to sleep, but when he wakes up early the next morning, he knows he’s on his stomach, rutting against the mattress. His cock is painfully hard and he grimaces at the wet spot he’s lying on, but decidedly _doesn’t_ stop moving his hips, enjoying the friction too much.

Rhys’ head feels heavy and clouded and there’s not much in the way of coherent thought. Mostly he just _needs,_ needs _something_ and he isn’t entirely sure what until he feels strong hands at his hips, urging him to his knees. His body is pliant and he goes easily, resting most of his weight on his arm, forehead resting against the crook of his elbow.

“You’re lookin’ a little wrecked, kitten,” he hears Jack say, voice low and deep and it’s absolutely _doing_ it for him. Rhys moans and slides his legs further apart, wants nothing more than the Alpha to fuck him until he can’t walk.

“ _Please,”_ Rhys gasps, his eyes glassy and out of focus.

“Hmm?” Jack’s chest rumbles and Rhys’ cock twitches at the sound alone. “What do you want, pumpkin?” he asks, thumb rubbing circles into Rhys’ inner thigh, “You want me to fuck you?”

Rhys nods his head quickly, whining into the pillow, the action only serving to make him dizzier.   

“Nah uh, gotta use your words,” Jack replies, pulling away completely. Rhys groans and tries to pull a coherent sentence from his heat-addled brain.

“Please,” he repeats, tongue heavy in his mouth, “fuck me—please, I need it—“

“That’s the ticket,” Jack mumbles and Rhys faintly hears the shuffling of Jack undressing, feels the bed dip behind him, before the blunt head of Jack’s cock is pressed against his entrance. Rhys shudders as the other man pushes inside, agonizingly slow—too slow—and he cants his hips back to take more of Jack’s dick. They both moan when Jack bottoms out, thighs pressed snugly against Rhys’ ass.

Jack’s hands grab his hips, fingers digging in just enough to hold him still, and then he’s _moving_. He starts a quick pace, thrusting shallowly and Rhys whines into the pillow.

He feels Jack drape himself over his back, covering him entirely and Rhys moans the other man’s name, revels in the feeling of Jack caging him in.

Jack thrusts into him, hard enough for his knees to slide forward on the bed and Rhys gasps.

“Again—“he says, mouth hanging open, breathing heavily, “please—harder.”

Jack obliges him, nose pressed into Rhys’ neck as he fucks him harder. The wet slap of skin against skin reverberates in Rhys’ head and his whole body shakes, overwhelmed with lust.

He comes without his dick being touched, sudden and messily into the sheets. “Ohh, God—“ he whimpers, his skin tingling with pleasure; Jack is still moving and Rhys’ cock is still hard between his legs. He hears Jack groan into his ear, hips stuttering momentarily before he picks up the pace again; Rhys yelps when the Alpha bites his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, to _mark_ him like Rhys wants him to.

“Christ, sweetheart,” Jack growls, breath hot and heavy at the shell of Rhys’ ear, “you smell so friggin’ good. So wet for me, huh?”

Rhys whines, breathless and needy, desperately nodding his head because he needs it, needs Jack to fill him up. Jack’s hips slow and Rhys can feel his knot swelling, stretching him open. Jack grunts into Rhys’ neck, hips jerking once, twice, then stilling, pressed flush against him. The added pressure against his prostate is enough to make Rhys come again, and somehow it’s just as intense as the first time.

His legs shake, unsteady beneath him, and he closes his eyes when Jack maneuvers him off his knees and onto his side, the Alpha pressing against his back. The weight of the knot makes Rhys feel grounded, comfortable, and his heat eases up enough for him to finally _breathe_.

“Better?” Jack asks, lips moving against the back of Rhys’ neck.

“Yeah,” Rhys sighs, relaxing against the other man. Sometime later, Jack is able to slip out of him, leaving Rhys to groan at the loss. He hears Jack shuffle around in the bathroom, the sink running, before he’s back, cool hands coming to rest against his warm cheeks.

“Still pretty hot,” Jack says, more to himself, and Rhys doesn’t bother replying, just watches him through half-lidded eyes. Jack pulls a hand away and snaps his fingers in front of Rhys’ face.

“Stay awake, Rhysie.”

Rhys scowls at him and pushes his hand away. Jack just snorts and moves, disappearing from Rhys’ line of sight. When he comes back, he urges Rhys into a sitting position and gets him to eat some sliced watermelon. Rhys remembers the last time he’d gotten dehydrated during a heat and the subsequent hospital visit, so he takes the fruit without complaint.

It’s sweet and juicy on his tongue—probably the best watermelon he’s ever tasted in his life, but that might’ve been the heat talking. He feels some of the juice spill down his chin and he quickly wipes it away with his wrist. When he glances up, Jack is watching him intently, eyes dark. Rhys cracks an awkward smile and takes another bite of melon.

“No offense cupcake,” Jack clears his throat, gaze flicking from Rhys’ lips back to his eyes, “but what’s a hot thing like you calling a service agency for?”

Rhys grins cheekily at the compliment and sets the rind of his watermelon slice on the plate, before grabbing another piece. He shrugs noncommittally, “I haven’t really—uh, _been_ with anyone in a while,” he says, “just haven’t been interested, y’know? I usually just, take like, ten suppressors and lie in bed for a week. Not very fun.”

“I bet,” Jack laughs.

“What about you, huh?” Rhys asks around the watermelon in his mouth, “you’re seriously not bonded with anyone?”

“Nah, too busy for that shit,” Jack replies, and when he doesn’t say anything else, Rhys doesn’t press the issue. 

Rhys barely finishes the watermelon on the plate before he’s hard again and Jack is pushing him into the mattress.

* * *

 

“Wait, wait, _wait_ —“ Rhys huffs sometime later when Jack’s pulls out of him and Rhys _watches_ him pull off a condom and tie it off. He frowns at Jack; he knew it, he knew something was off, something was _missing._

Jack tosses the condom in the garbage before he looks at Rhys, eyebrow raised.

“Don’t,” he starts, licking his lips, “I wanna feel—it.”

“What’s that, princess?”

Rhys moans, hot and irritable, “want you, to come in me.”

There’s a beat of silence before—

“ _Jesus,_ ” Jack breathes and Rhys can _feel_ the wave of arousal that rolls off the other man, but he says, “I know you’re lucid enough to know that’s a bad idea.” 

“Not a bad idea,” Rhys argues, reaching forward to press his hand against the V of Jack’s hips, “a good, _good_ idea.”

Jack makes a noise, deep in his chest when Rhys’ fingers brush along his rapidly growing erection. They _just_ got untangled and Rhys is pouting at him, lips shiny with spit. Jack grabs Rhys’ wrist, moves forward to cover his body with his own. Rhys whines when Jack presses their cocks together and _thrusts,_ his mouth sucking at Rhys’ neck.

“You’re taking something, right babe?” Jack asks and Rhys nods quickly, moans when Jack pulls his leg up to rest on his shoulder. Jack wraps his large hand around both of them, angling his wrist to twist on every upstroke. Rhys shudders beneath him, hand curling around Jack’s forearm encouragingly.

Jack pulls his hand away suddenly and Rhys barely has time to whine before Jack’s pushing into him. He thrusts suddenly, burying himself to the hilt and groaning against Rhys’ thigh. Jack presses forward and Rhys winces at the stretch but ignores it in favor of the way Jack starts to move.

He sets a fast pace, tells Rhys how _good_ he feels, how tight and wet he is. Rhys revels in the praise, whimpers when Jack thrusts particularly hard, angling his hips to hit Rhys’ sensitive spot. Rhys bites his lip hard enough to hurt, breathless moans and whines escaping his throat.

“You want it?” Jack’s voice is husky and Rhys clenches around him, causing the Alpha to moan. Jack nips at his leg, sharp enough to cut through the haze of lust and get Rhys to look at him. “Asked you a question, Rhys.”

“Mmnn?”

“You want me to knot you again?”

Rhys actually cries out at that, “ _yes_ , Jack, _please_. _Fuck me_ —“

Jack grunts, his fingers digging into the meat of Rhys’ thigh as he fucks him. Rhys can’t help but feel a little smug, watching Jack’s face twist in pleasure, hair falling into his face.

The Alpha makes a quiet, strangled noise when he comes, and he continues to thrust into Rhys as his knot starts to swell. When he finally stills his hips, Rhys bites his lips, feeling Jack’s cock twitch inside him, and he’s _still_ coming, filling Rhys up just like he wanted.

Jack looks down at him, chest heaving and glistening with sweat and Rhys wiggles his hips, gasping and shaking as Jack’s knot rubs against his inner walls. He moans when he comes, head thrown back against the pillow.

They both take a moment to catch their breath before Jack lets Rhys’ leg slide off his shoulder. He leans forward, mindful of where their still attached as he lays down and covers Rhys with his body. Rhys makes a choked sound as the knot moves inside him and Jack brings his hand up to push the hair away from Rhys’ sweaty forehead.

Rhys breathes in deeply through his nose, Jack’s scent and weight helping to keep him calm for the time being. Jack slowly starts to pull away some twenty minutes later, their sweaty skin sticking unpleasantly. Rhys shuts his eyes when he feels the cum begin leak out, Jack’s knot no longer holding it inside him.  He feels his face flush and his cock twitches with interest; he moans, half in arousal and half in exhaustion.

Jack seems to notice his problem and moments later, the man’s hands are on his ass, spreading his cheeks.

“Wha—“

“Shh,” Jack hushes him, leans down, and then he’s mouthing at Rhys’ entrance, tongue lapping up the mix of cum and slick.

“ _Oh,”_ Rhys breathes, his hips jerking when Jack’s tongue slides inside him, warm and wet and so _so_ good. A finger slides in beside Jack’s tongue, quickly followed by two more, curling and thrusting in tandem.

“Is this—“ he starts to say, voice breathy and low, but Jack’s fingers rub against his prostate and Rhys snaps his mouth shut, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He hears Jack make a sound like a laugh before his free hand pushes at Rhys’ thigh, spreading him wider.

Jack slips his tongue out to press at the base of Rhys’ cock, lightly sucking at the warm skin and making Rhys moan. His dick is hard again and more slick is sliding out of him, soaking the sheets. Rhys bucks his hips towards Jack’s mouth, his fingers, head fuzzy with _want_ and _need_ and not much else.

Rhys comes hard, his mouth dropping open and his eyes screwing shut. His release dribbles onto his stomach, cock too spent to give much.

He whines when Jack’s fingers continue to move and it’s suddenly too much for him. Rhys tries to move away, whimpering, and Jack takes the hint, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the sheets.

Rhys breathes heavily and he cracks his eyes open when he feels Jack watching him. He grins at him, too exhausted to be embarrassed that the guy just had his _tongue_ in his ass. Jack doesn’t return the smile, but he pats Rhys’ thigh as he moves to get up. Rhys follows him with his eyes, watches when he bends down to tug on his boxers; he quickly looks away when Jack glances back at him.

Jack leaves the room and returns some minutes later with water and he makes Rhys drink the entire thing. After, Jack asks him where he keeps his sheets and Rhys struggles to tell him, lazily pointing to the bathroom. It’s only when Jack hauls him up to _change_ the sheets that Rhys starts complaining.

He grumbles when Jack sets him on his feet in the bathroom and turns away to grab sheets from the cupboard.

“Just gonna get dirty again,” Rhys huffs, resting his cheek against the wall. It’s cold and it makes him shiver, goosebumps raising on his skin.

“Yeah, and then you put clean ones on. Again. Were you raised in a barn?”

Rhys pouts and says “shut up,” giving Jack the most annoyed look he can muster. Jack just shakes his head and laughs quietly. He leaves Rhys in the bathroom while he changes the sheets on the bed, dropping the dirty ones into the laundry basket.

When Rhys finally crawls back into bed, he presses his face into the clean pillow, the scent of his fabric softener pleasant to his nose. He falls asleep like that, covers pulled up to his waist and the faint touch of Jack’s fingers sliding through his hair.

The third day is significantly worse, his memory of it hazy at best, and completely blank at worst. His heat is _suffocating_ , keeping him delirious and feverish save for those small moments of respite right after he orgasms. But even then, he’s only _just_ coherent, barely capable of telling Jack what he needs.

He thinks they talk, between fucking, _knows_ he feels angry and irritable when Jack decides it’s time for breaks. He’s pretty sure he snaps at him at some point—literally, teeth and all.  Jack responds by sinking his teeth into Rhys’ neck, just deep enough to leave a mark.

The fourth day is just as bad and Rhys is bundled under the covers when Jack interrupts his sleep by pressing his big, cool hands against his neck. Rhys shudders, grumbling irritably into the pillow, and he cracks one eye open to shoot Jack a dirty look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jack says, sliding one hand up to Rhys’ forehead. “Christ, you’re burning up.”

“ _Stop,”_ Rhys whines, bringing a shaky hand up to push Jack’s away from his face. Jack just slides a thermometer between Rhys’ lips, pressing it under his tongue. Rhys groans, tries to spit it out, feeling particularly ornery, but Jack holds it firmly.

“102,” Jack says when he pulls the thermometer out and Rhys frowns, closing his eyes again. He sighs when moments later, a cool, damp cloth is laid across his forehead. Distantly, he hears the bath running and then Jack’s picking him up off the bed and carrying him to the bathroom. Jack helps him climbs into the tub and Rhys sighs as he sinks into the lukewarm water.

Jack pulls the cloth from where it’s stuck to Rhys’ forehead, dipping it in the water and dragging it up his arm, his torso, along his collarbone. It feels nice and Rhys leans back, letting his head rest against the wall.

They stay like that awhile, Rhys closing his eyes contently as Jack moves the cloth across his body soothingly. It helps to push down his fever, but Rhys can feel his heat creeping further up his spine every time Jack’s fingers brush his skin.

Rhys tilts his head and looks up at Jack, eyes hooded as he licks his lips. Jack notices, grins in that stupid, smug way Rhys has somehow gotten used to in the short time he’s been here.

Jack dips his free hand beneath the water, fingers sliding down Rhys’ stomach until he can wrap them around his half-hard cock. Rhys moans quietly, leans forward to mouth at Jack’s neck. He hears the other man grunt, feels his adam’s apple move under his tongue as he swallows.

Rhys brings his hand up to tug at Jack’s arm, smiles cheekily when Jack stands and removes his boxers before stepping to the tub. Rhys leans forward to let him slide in behind him; strong arms wrap around him and pull him back against Jack’s chest.

Jack’s already hard and Rhys presses his ass back against his dick, reveling in the sound he’s awarded for it. One of Jack’s arms slide down and he strokes himself before pressing the head against Rhys’ entrance.

“Come _on_ ,” Rhys complains when Jack doesn’t slide in, nosing at Rhys’ neck instead. Rhys shivers when Jack’s tongue drags along the shell of his ear, gasps when Jack finally does push in to the hilt, thighs pressed against Rhys’ ass.

Actually _moving_ is a little difficult; the tub is too smooth for Rhys’ feet to hold him in place when Jack thrusts his hips. Rhys grabs the edge and lifts himself up, groaning when Jack’s dick slides out of him completely. Jack presses a hand to his side to steady him as he turns around and presses against Jack’s chest.

Jack pulls him close, presses his cock into Rhys again and grabs the smaller man’s hips. Rhys moans and buries his face into Jack’s neck, arm wrapping around his shoulders. Jack starts a slow pace, rolling his hips against Rhys, but Rhys is impatient and needy and he grinds down into Jack’s lap, clenching around him.

With a groan, Jack quickens his thrusts, water sloshing over the sides of the tub to create a puddle Rhys would later step in. Rhys whimpers against Jack’s neck at every thrust, his cock trapped between them as they move.

“Ja- _ck_ ,” Rhys whines desperately, and then he’s coming between them, teeth digging into Jack’s neck.

“Friggin hell,” Jack breathes when Rhys continues to move, thrusting against Jack’s toned stomach. He slides his hands to cover Rhys’ ass, fingers spreading him open until his knot swells inside him. Jack’s hips slow when he comes, and then still entirely when the knot grows too big to move. Rhys is whining against his throat and when Jack glances down, Rhys’ cock is still hard under the water.

He wraps one hand around Rhys dick, and starts to jerk him off, thumb swiping across the slit gently.

“NNnnn,” Rhys’ voice is shaky against his ear and Jack pauses.

“Want me to stop?” he asks and Rhys quickly shakes his head.

“No,” he says, voice tight and breathy with the barest hint of a stutter.

Jack moves his hand again, pulls another orgasm out of Rhys in less than a minute. Rhys shudders to Jack’s somewhat concerned surprise, his dick is _still_ hard in his hand. He pulls his hand away when he feels wetness at his neck, Rhys’ breath heavy and warm against his skin.

“Too much?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Rhys doesn’t reply, just sniffs quietly and Jack presses his hand flat against his lower back, mindlessly rubbing circles into his taut muscles. When Jack’s knot finally goes down, the water is cold and uncomfortable and Rhys groans when Jack slips out and cum spills out of him.

Jack climbs out of the tub and pulls the drain plug before lifting Rhys like he’s nothing and making him stand on shaky legs. Rhys leans against the other man, hums when a fluffy towel is wrapped around him. He closes his eyes and lets Jack do all the work of drying him off, enjoying the feel of the soft material sliding across his skin.

He feels barely conscious when Jack finally hauls him into his arms and carries him back to the bed. A pair of pajama shorts are pulled up his legs, followed by a long sleeve shirt forced over his head. Jack tugs his arm through the sleeve before letting it drop and Rhys sighs, cheek smooshed into the pillow.

He opens his eyes just enough to see Jack leaning over the bedside table to switch off the lamp, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Rhys curls his fingers around the other man’s wrist, pressing into the blue ink that sits there.

Jack looks at him, stays still when Rhys tries to tug him forward. Rhys watches Jack think, his eyes glazing over, just a bit, just _enough_ —

When Jack slides into bed beside him, Rhys is quick to curl up against him, humming when the other man pulls him in, resting his hand on Rhys’ hip. Rhys presses his nose into Jack’s neck and inhales, loving how deeply the Alpha’s scent has permeated his home, his _skin_. He revels in how good it makes him feel—safe and warm.

He drifts off to sleep like that, imagines living in this feeling forever, and he _wants_.

* * *

 

When he wakes up on the fifth day, Rhys knows he’s over the worst of it. He feels warm but not hot, his skin soft and dry rather than clammy. The fog in his head has receded to the very edges, leaving him with a warm feeling of content. He peers at Jack from under his eyelashes to see that his eyes are closed, face slack with sleep. Rhys takes the moment to really look at him, eyes carefully tracing the scar imprinted in his skin.

The skin is a little rough at the edges and Rhys can’t help but wonder where and how he got such a large scar. It looks like it must’ve been painful, and he just barely resists the urge to reach out and run his fingertips along the shape of it.

When he glances back up, Jack’s eyes are open and the look on his face is something indiscernible. Rhys swallows, opens his mouth—closes it, and Jack is the first to look away.

“How long have you been awake, you friggin’ creep?” he asks gruffly, pulling away and turning to lie on his back.

“Wh—like a _minute_!” Rhys sputters indignantly as he moves up to rest on his elbow.

“Uh huh, sure,” Jack replies with a snort, “It’s okay if you wanna stare, kitten. I know it’s hard not to.”

“ _Wow,_ ” Rhys says, rolling his eyes, but he has to press his grin into his palm so Jack doesn’t see it.  After a moment, Jack lazily raises his arms up in a stretch, sighing when his shoulders crack. Arousal pools in his stomach, quiet and soft—his head is clear enough that he can ignore it.

Jack mirrors him, leaning on his elbow, “you need somethin’?”

Rhys shakes his head quickly, face flushing pink. Now that he’s mostly cooled off, embarrassment is definitely a feeling that’s returned to him.

“Don’t get all shy, cupcake. My dick was in your ass like twelve hours ago.”

“Oh my god, _shut up_.”  

Jack laughs, full and loud and its goddamn infectious because Rhys starts laughing too, shaking his head. Rhys’s giggles quiet down after a few moments, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jack is smiling too—sort of. Its more teeth and ego than anything, obnoxiously attractive, and Rhys surges forward, pressing his lips to it.

Jack doesn’t move at first and Rhys falters, thinking he’s read this all wrong. He starts to pull back, an apology already on his tongue, but Jack’s hand grips the back of his neck and tugs him forward. Their lips meet again, sliding warm against each other. Jack kisses him deeply, and Rhys lets his eyes slide shut, his heart pounding against his ribcage and his skin prickling with want.

When they separate, he hears Jack inhale sharply through his nose, his hand sliding down from Rhys’ neck. Rhys opens his eyes again, watches as Jack turns and gets up. He makes his way around the small bedroom, tugging his pants on and then his shirt and his socks and _boots_ and Rhys furrows his eyebrows. He opens his mouth to say _something_ —

“You’re good, yeah?” Jack asks first, grabbing his watch from the dresser and sliding it over his wrist.

“…If by ‘good’, you mean not heat crazy, then yeah,” Rhys reply is tinged with sarcasm and he sighs before rolling onto his back, resting his hand over his stomach, “I’m good.”

There’s a moment of silence, Jack scratches his chin, coughs in the awkward space between them. Rhys tilts his chin to look at him, one eyebrow cocked.

“I’m gonna get out of here then,” Jack says, “go home and uh…” he trails off, zipping up his boot.

“You’re gonna leave before I can tip you?” Rhys blurts out, and immediately regrets it when the other man looks at him. “..Sorry, that sounds weird. I meant like—food. Breakfast, you know?”

“I know of it, yeah.”

“I make some pretty mean French toast,” Rhys says, “I could make some now, if you’re hungry. Since, uh, I mean you’ve kinda been doing that…all week…” his brain is telling him to _shut up_ and he wishes his mouth would listen because Jack’s looking at him like he’s stupid. Rhys fills the silence with a nervous laugh, “Or I could—“

“Yeahhh, not sure I trust your dumbass around a frying pan,” Jack finally replies, and Rhys blinks, bites his lip to stop from grinning.

Instead, he gasps in mock offense, “Excuse me? I’m amazing.”

“Pffft,” Jack snorts, “Kitten, _my_ French toast would blow your mind.” 

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you prove it then, asshole?”

And just like that, Rhys is sitting on the couch, legs crossed with a plate of way too much French toast in his lap. Jack sits beside him, shoveling the syrup coated toast into his mouth. His bragging is completely founded though, Rhys thinks as he chews. It’s some _damn_ good French toast.

When they’re both finished, Rhys glances at Jack, grins when he sees the powdered sugar clinging to his bottom lip.

“You got somethin’,” he starts, reaches his thumb out to wipe it away. Jack’s watching him again, and when Rhys moves to pull his arm back, Jack’s fingers wrap around his wrist, holding it there. Jack is the one to lean forward and kiss him this time, tasting sugary and sweet and not at all like himself.

When he pulls back, Jack takes their empty plates to the sink, runs a hand through his disheveled hair. The awkward silence is back, and Rhys opens his mouth to tell him, he doesn’t have to leave, can stay if he _wants to_ —

Jack steps over to the couch again, leans down to press his chapped lips to Rhys’ cheek.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart.”

Jack winks at him and then he’s gone, shuts the front door behind him as he leaves.

* * *

 

It’s a week before Rhys musters up the courage to call the agency again, hoping maybe he’ll get a way to contact Jack; a phone number or an email. Anything. Betty isn’t the one who answers the call, but the man on the line tells him they don’t give out that sort of personal information.

It’s _frustrating_ and he’s maybe a little more upset about it than he has any right to be. The heat makes him crazy, he thinks. The residual feelings will wear off, he assures himself.

Vaughn and Yvette share a worried look when he tells them all about it a few days later. He’s nice enough to leave out the sex details (mostly because he can’t _quite_ remember them) but he tells them about Jack’s stupid face and his French toast and his goddamn _kisses._

He checks the company’s website, but it’s a graphic design nightmare that looks like it hasn’t been updated in ten years. There are no pictures of their employees, no names.

For the next month, he answers calls from every number he doesn’t recognize, because even though he hadn’t given Jack his number, he thinks maybe he got a hold of it some other way. Maybe he’s thinking about Rhys as much as Rhys is thinking about him. _Maybe_ he’s trying to get in touch too.

The calls leave him disappointed and vaguely annoyed every time, and always hangs up on the telemarketers mid-speech.  

“Dude, I’m getting kinda worried about you,” Vaughn tells him sometime later as they sip coffee at a Starbucks near work. It’s been a rough week and Rhys can see the way Vaughn is eyeing the dark circles under his eyes and it irritates him.

“Don’t. I’m fine, see?” he smiles brightly before taking a swig of his mocha.

Vaughn just squints at him, pushes up his glasses the way he always does before he’s about to start a monologue.

“Bro, seriously,” Rhys cuts him off, “it’s just like. I don’t know. Maybe I did get a little heat crazy and it’s just lingering? I’ll just take more suppressors and it’ll…go away.” He doesn’t mention that he’s already been _doing_ that for the past month and it hasn’t worked so far.

“You guys didn’t like…err, accidentally bond, did you?” Vaughn asks, concern written on his face, “I mean, I’ve read some articles online and it kinda sounds like—“

“No. We definitely didn’t,” Rhys says, coming off a little snappier than he intends to. He sighs, bringing his hand up to rub his neck where Jack’s teeth hadn’t quite broken skin, “sorry. I’ll get over it.”

And he _does_. Sort of.

He pushes thoughts of Jack to the back of his brain, focuses on work and grad school. He stays long hours in the engineering building, because his grades have to be _perfect_ if he wants a shot at working for DAHL or Hyperion.

For all intents and purposes, he stops thinking about Jack and heats and bonding, and spends his time being productive instead.

Until a year later, with his heat less than a week away. He thinks about using his old method for getting through it, but the business card Yvette had given him is still on his fridge, stuck under a smiley face magnet. He tears it down, crumples it in his hand…then carefully smooths it out again with a frown.

He taps the number into his phone, and his thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button. The clock on his wall ticks obnoxiously, and he steels his nerves before pressing the button.

The questions he’s asked are just as uncomfortable as last time, but less thorough since they still have some of his information on file. When there’s a lull, the man on the line typing on his keyboard, Rhys asks if it would be possible to get the same Alpha as last time. It takes the guy a minute to check who it is—“Jack”, Rhys offers even though he really doesn’t need to.

“Hmm, sorry. Looks like he doesn’t work here anymore.”  

“Oh…That’s—yeah, that’s fine.”

 _It is_. It’s fine. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter who they send because it’s not like he’s _attached_ to anyone. As long as they help him through his heat, it doesn’t matter.

When the Alpha actually shows up at his door, (shorter than Rhys, blond hair, an easy smile), he’s not quite convinced anymore. He lets him inside and it’s _weird_ and it’s not like the Alpha smells bad, just _wrong_. An uncomfortable weight settles heavy in the pit of Rhys’ stomach.

He apologizes to the guy, can’t even look him in the eye when he leaves. Rhys _hates_ it, hates that he’s still thinking about Jack a _year_ later. Can’t get the stupid man—who he’s not even _bonded_ with—out of his head.

Rhys swallows a handful of suppressors after that and lets the bed swallow him whole.

* * *

 

Two years later, Rhys grins at the mirror, adjusting the clip of his red tie against his neck. His vest is split horizontally, a pattern of hexagons running from his chest and over his shoulders. The little rectangle on the left reads ‘Hyperion’ in neat, yellow text.

He’d actually gotten into the company right after graduation, as an intern in the requisitions division. It was _grueling_ work, not to mention unpaid, and his superiors were always dropping their projects onto him. He did get hired on full-time once his internship was up—it wasn’t a super fancy position or anything, mostly secretary work, but it paid the bills and he had lots of room to move around in the company.

Today, he’s supposed to meet with his boss, Henderson, to discuss getting him transferred over to robotics. Rhys takes one last look at himself, slicks a wayward hair back into place, before he heads out.

Henderson actually takes him up to the engineering floor to give him an impromptu tour. He points out and introduces him to Blake, who would be his boss after he transferred. It’s actually kind of cool to watch everyone work on that floor. Some of them are hunched over their computers, just like in requisitions and sales, but most of them are also fiddling with circuit boards and half-built robotic limbs.

Okay, it’s _really_ cool, and Rhys wishes he’d had the opportunity to transfer sooner because it’s so much more up his alley. Henderson gives him some paperwork to sign before sending him on his lunch break. Rhys realizes with a frown that in his excitement that morning, he’d forgotten to bring a lunch.

He usually tries to avoid buying lunch at work just because the expense really adds up and—it’s not that he can’t afford it, he would just rather spend the money on other things. Opting to steer clear of the cafeteria, he wanders the offices instead, eyes lighting up when he spots a vending machine.

“Nice,” he says to himself, reaching into his pocket for some change. Rhys slides the coins into the slot and looks over the choices, eyes settling on a bag of Doritos. He hits the button and watches the coils inside the machine turn, pushing the bag closer to the edge.

Then it stops moving, the chip bag curved over the coil, but not enough for it to fall.

“Oh, are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Rhys hisses, brings his metal hand up to tap the glass. The bag doesn’t move and he scowls; he doesn’t want to put any more quarters in but he’s _hungry_ , dammit.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone bangs the side of the machine with their elbow, causing it to rattle. He presses his hand to his chest and turns toward whoever tried to give him a heart attack, eyes narrowed. He freezes when he instantly recognizes the man leaning his weight against the contraption.

He still has that same swoopy hairstyle, although it’s more put together than the last time Rhys had seen him. He’s even wearing the same _jacket_ , sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Hey sweetheart,” Jack says, smirking, a pair of thin-framed glasses resting on his nose.  

The chip bag falls.

Rhys stares, his mouth opening and then closing before he feels himself flush. He swallows, averts his gaze and his heart is pounding in his chest for more reasons that one. When he looks back, Jack’s smirk has softened into something a little more genuine and Rhys can’t help but return it with a smile of his own.

“Hey.”

Jack leans forward and for a brief moment Rhys thinks they’re going to kiss _right_ there in the hallway like some sort of romance movie. Instead, Jack grabs the bag of Doritos from the vending machine, gives Rhys a _look,_ almost like he’s offended by them.

“Don’t tell me this is your lunch,” he says flatly.

“I forgot it at home,” Rhys tries to look indignant, bites his lip in an attempt to keep his smile from growing into a full-on grin.

“Pfft,” Jack rolls his eyes and tosses the bag to Rhys, who just barely catches it. “Cafeteria food’s not great, but it’s better than a friggin’ bag of _Doritos_. Seriously?”

He steps around Rhys and starts down the hall, an obnoxious swagger in his gait. Rhys stares at his back, raising his eyebrows when Jack stops and glances back at him with a frown.

“I know I’ve got a sweet ass, kitten, but lunch is sort of a limited window. You’re gonna have to ogle later.”

“I wasn’t—shut _up_ ,” Rhys says and he _is_ grinning now, finally moving his feet. Jack waits until he catches up, hands shoved in his pockets, and they walk together.


End file.
